Routined Cabaret Quotes & Sayings

It's such a Bore Being always Poor. — Langston Hughes

His own life was no longer a single story but part of a mural, which was a falling together of accomplices. Patrick saw a wondrous night web-all of these fragments of a human order, something ungoverned by the family he was born into or the headlines of the day. A nun on a bridge, a dare-devil who was unable to sleep without drink, a boy watching a fire from his bed at night,an actress who ran away with a millionaire- the detritus and chaos of the age was realigned. — Michael Ondaatje

How far is the Soul from attaining moksha (ultimate liberation)? Only the obstructive (antray) karmas. — Dada Bhagwan

My rage had become a living thing inside my chest, an echoing heartbeat that soothed me to sleep and stirred me to waking. — Sarah J. Maas

Value, therefore, does not stalk about with a label describing what it is. — Karl Marx

No man is much good unless he believes in God and obeys His laws. — Robert Baden-Powell

You, and you alone, get to determine whether you are going to react positively about something or negatively about something - or, interestingly, have no reaction at all. Your emotions are entirely under your control. Your feelings are what you want them to be. — Neale Donald Walsch

These little eccentricities on my grandfather's part implied no ill-will whatsoever towards my friends. But Bloch had displeased my family for other reasons. He had begun by annoying my father, who, seeing him come in with wet clothes, had asked him with keen interest: "Why, M. Bloch, is there a change in the weather; has it been raining? I can't understand it; the barometer has been 'set fair.'" Which drew from Bloch nothing more instructive than "Sir, I am absolutely incapable of telling you whether it has rained. I live so resolutely apart from physical contingencies that my senses no longer trouble to inform me of them." "My poor boy," said my father after Bloch had gone, "your friend is out of his mind. Why, he couldn't even tell me what the weather was like. As if there could be anything more interesting! He is an imbecile. — Marcel Proust

"Is Jeb alive?" I ask Morpheus.
White bleeds into his jeweled markings - the color of indifference. "I didn't kill him, if that's what you're implying."
"You know it's not. Could you for once just give me a straight answer?"
He gazes up at the smoky gray sky. "Your mortal is alive and well. In fact, you will no doubt be seeing him very soon."
Relieved tears spring into my eyes. "So, that means you know where he is?" Is it possible Morpheus took Jeb under his wings after all?
Dad stops stuffing the fabric in the bag, as if waiting to hear the answer.
Appraising his cane, Morpheus growls. "I do know where he is." Before I can respond, he lifts his eyes to mine, jewels now bordering on emerald green. "I suppose I should be grateful his name wasn't the first thing that came out of your mouth." — A.G. Howard